


Fragmented Memories

by lightsinthedistance



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, F/M, Female Reader, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Rape, Not A Happy Ending, One Shot, Psychological Trauma, Second person POV, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsinthedistance/pseuds/lightsinthedistance
Summary: “He’d put up with the screaming, the crying, the depressive attitudes. He’d tolerated your initial hostility, the way you flinched when he touched you. He took care of you, made sure you ate, got you to sleep. Your love had stuck by you through all of it.”Poe sticks by Reader through this traumatic event in her life.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Original Character(s), Poe Dameron/Original Female Character(s), Poe Dameron/Reader, Poe Dameron/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Fragmented Memories

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Mentions of rape
> 
> Hey guys, I don’t know exactly why I was compelled to write this piece, but I did my research. Belittling, devaluing, or misrepresenting the experience/struggle of a sexual assault survivor is something I absolutely do not want to do. I am fortunate enough to not have experienced any sexual assault/harassment in my life, meaning I don’t know this experience first hand. If you have any knowledge or find any inaccuracies, feel free to let me know in a comment, and I will fix it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think in a comment! Kudos and comments are always appreciated.

You laid on top of him, your pilot, your love. Sometimes hovering, sometimes resting your whole weight on his form. The air was warm, firm, like a sheet of protectiveness conforming to you. His breath was hot on your skin as he let out soft, unashamed whimpers occasionally.

You peppered soft kisses along his neck and jaw, savoring the feeling of his hands roaming your body, caressing you, feeling you. His touch was gentle, like smooth silk and velvet on your nerves.

He moaned as you ground down on him, feeling his hardness that complemented the desire you felt. You hadn’t felt that desire in a long time—for a particular reason. 

This was your first time.

But no, not like that. Not in the sense of what ‘first time’ generally meant.

This was the first time the two of you had made love upon your return from the captivity of the First Order. Your first time after you’d been violated, defiled, made to feel worthless. Like nothing. After having your body used without your permission. 

You’d returned a shell of yourself, doing your job for the Resistance with a ruthless, cutthroat efficiency, for you’d blocked everything else in your head out. Locked it all up. But the damming of all your emotions had its side effects.

Poe had put up with the screaming, the crying, the depressive attitudes. He’d tolerated your initial hostility, the way you flinched when he touched you. He took care of you, made sure you ate, got you to sleep. Your love had stuck by you through all of it.

You’d treated him like dirt at first, like something you wanted to get rid of, but simply couldn’t shake. The memory still triggered a guilt in you over a year later. Still, he’d stayed, had held strong as the stability and anchor in your life. 

Sex had been unfathomable for the first year, and he’d respected that. He never pushed you, and he never urged you to do things you didn’t want to. Before your capture, your time spent between sheets with him had been passionate, caring, all fiery desire.

And then, it’d faded to nothing upon your return.

Recovery started small at first. A few weeks for you to let him kiss you. A month to let him hug you. Four months for you to let him see you naked again. Six to let him sleep in the same bed as you. Thirteen to let him go down on you again.

And all that led to here, where you were pressed against him, fingers intertwined as his fingers worked their magic between your legs, coaxing out your wetness. 

“Alright, baby girl?” he murmured, checking in on you.

You nodded. The two of you had talked of this for weeks before the present moment. What was off limits, what made you uncomfortable, what was absolutely forbidden. “Very alright.”

When you started to moan and move your hips back against his hand, he sat up, pulling you close to his chest. “Ready?” His soft brown eyes searched yours, looking for any signs of discomfort or uncertainty. His concern made you adore him all the more.

You nodded in response to his query, the pleasure at your core begging to be acted upon. He made you feel safe. He always did. 

“If you need me to stop, just say something. You need to talk to me.”

“I know.” You said it with a resolute conviction, trusting him in every way. Despite your trauma, a part of your brain still recognized him as the man who had saved your life countless times, who had consoled you in your darkest moments, who had loved you when you felt unlovable.

And with your readiness, you slowly sank down onto him. The feeling was overwhelmingly familiar, in both a good and bad way. It reminded you of passionate nights nearly a year and a half ago. It also reminded you of cold prison cells that came with an impending dread of some guard of officer walking in to have their way with you. 

You didn’t realize that you’d zoned out. You came back to reality at the sound of him saying your name. His hands were on your cheeks, gently grasping your face. “Do we need to stop?” he asked, his eyes worried.

You shook your head, both in response and as a way to rid yourself of the dark memories. “No. I’m fine.”

He frowned. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, offering up a small smile and rolling your hips slightly to prove your point. He gasped, gripping your hips, his face buried in your neck.

He let you determine the pace, giving you the control, letting you do things on your own terms. You were moaning, letting out soft whines every time your clit brushed his pelvis. Only when your hands began to claw at his back did he begin to experimentally thrust back, gauging your reactions. All you did was moan louder.

Soft mutters of your name escaped his lips as he breathed shakily. He hadn’t been with anyone else. He would never cheat on you. Needless to say, it’d been a long time since he’d been inside someone, and he wasn’t going to last long.

But you were closer. He’d already had you fairly close to your finish before he’d slid inside you, and each touch to your clit was bringing you nearer and nearer until you were gasping his name. “Fuck, Poe…I’m gonna….” You were unable to finish your sentence before you were going rigid, riding out the waves of your pleasure as he groaned at the feel of your walls clenching around him.

That was the last straw for him, and with one more thrust, he came, his hands knotted in your hair. 

You breathed hard as you laid limp on his chest, still feeling the dull throb between your legs. He shifted, lying down and taking you with him, holding you close to him. It reminded you of how desperately you’d missed this: to feel close to someone after sharing such an intimate act.

But as the dopamine and oxytocin wore off, a feeling of horror and something slightly worse began to set in. Fragmented memories flashed through your mind, disconnected, incomplete, yet still enough to set you off.

And then, you were crying. Soft, silent tears, so small and undetectable and helpless that Poe did not even notice them till he felt the liquid on his chest.

You knew that he was, above all, panicked, due to his body language. He said your name like a question, a plea for you to assure him that he was not the reason for you tears.

He was, but only indirectly. At the core of the situation, was you. You and your trauma that made you despise yourself every day for not being able to get over. That you beat yourself up for. You knew that it was a normal reaction, that there was nothing wrong with it, but a part of you would always sum it up as your weakness.

Poe was talking to you, but you barely heard any of it. Only hid behind the veil of your tears. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. His hold around you now seemed hesitant, unsure of his actions. You rolled out of his arms, settling on the other side of the mattress curled in a ball. The skin-on-skin contact, all of a sudden, felt less like a comfort and more like a threat. “Baby….” 

You didn’t respond, once again locking him out.

There was a feeling coming over you, one you were all too familiar with, a feeling of isolation and desperation. It was a feeling that nothing else existed: that it was just you, your trauma, and your pain. Dear old abusers that would seemingly be with you till the very end.


End file.
